


Another Moment More

by willowbilly



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Asexual Spock (Star Trek), Clothed Sex, Cock Warming, Collars, Dom/sub, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Dom Leonard McCoy, M/M, Mind Meld, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Service Sub Spock, Telepathic Bond, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, in the privacy of their quarters, mentions of switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 08:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15626754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowbilly/pseuds/willowbilly
Summary: McCoy told Spock right upfront that he'd be perfectly willing to hump his own hand in the privacy of the bathroom for the rest of his life if it meant he'd get to spend that life with Spock. Spock had said that he found that course of action to be completely unnecessary, seeing as Spock was not at all sex-repulsed, and was, in fact,quiteeager to engage in sexual activity for McCoy's sake, and for the sake of deepening their romantic bond. And because it pleases Spock to please McCoy.





	Another Moment More

**Author's Note:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS bc I like everyone to be fully informed and prepared: This fic also contains passing mentions of rough sex, masochism, humiliation kink, and sexual objectification kink. If that's. Not your thing. They're mostly McCoy's things, but since he's not subbing in this story, they're also mostly irrelevant, so! There ya go!

Spock's collar is a thick hoop of metal which clicks shut into a seamless circle around his neck. It's the color of white gold, and it warms to Human body temperature as soon as it's closed around Spock's throat, humming with comparative heat against the Vulcan coolness of Spock's skin. A faint blush starts beneath the collar in response to the temperature discrepancy as McCoy automatically and unnecessarily slips two fingers in between the collar and Spock's neck to check that the collar is not too tight; it's a force of habit rendered moot by the smart tech of the collar, but in McCoy's humble yet adamant opinion it's always better to be safe than sorry.

He watches green blood rise to the surface of Spock's skin like Earth foliage emerging from dormancy in the spring, Spock's sensitive throat blooming a delicately dappled ring of chartreuse irritation which flushes deeper the longer it is held in contact against the shining hoop of the collar. The metal casing is polished to spotless, ruthlessly inorganic brilliance. Spock's Adam's apple bumps against the implacable solidity of it as he swallows, flesh and tendon flexing against the middle joints of McCoy's fingers for a moment as the collar is tugged tighter with the minute surge of motion.

McCoy unhooks his fingers from the collar and curls his hand up and around to rest just above it, flat over the nape of Spock's neck. There are wispy tufts of hair growing out below the buzzed fade of Spock's hair, whispering gossamer-soft against McCoy's palm. That mathematically precise bowl cut is near about due for a tune-up and a trim.

“You ready, darling?” McCoy asks. His voice is already devolving into a husky drawl which flows thick and sweet as syrup from his throat. He figures it's only half as sweet as Spock is, when he's pliant and quiet like this beneath McCoy's touch. When he's this receptive. This _trusting._

It's always such an honor, to have Spock's trust. Such a power trip to have Spock want to do this for him.

And it really is for him. Spock makes no secret of being asexual, and his libido is additionally very low outside of his _pon farr._ They've talked, long and at length, about their relationship, and about the more intimate aspects of their relationship, and what they are and aren't willing to do.

McCoy told Spock right upfront that he'd be perfectly willing to hump his own hand in the privacy of the bathroom for the rest of his life if it meant he'd get to spend that life with Spock. Spock had said that he found that course of action to be completely unnecessary, seeing as Spock was not at all sex-repulsed, and was, in fact, _quite_ eager to engage in sexual activity for McCoy's sake, and for the sake of deepening their romantic bond. And because it pleases Spock to please McCoy.

Because Spock takes pleasure— romantic, _emotional_ pleasure— in _pleasing._ In being of service. He would equivocate and claim otherwise if McCoy ever called him on specifically taking _emotional_ pleasure for himself, as opposed to a mere “gratification in having successfully executed a given task,” but as much as McCoy has tried to goad Spock into admitting to emotionalism in the past, in other situations, McCoy would never corrupt this miraculous, remarkably tender thing between them by leveraging it against Spock in that way. Not here and not with this. He knows better than to try and force Spock to be something he isn't, now. And McCoy's a masochist, after all, not a sadist.

Of course, Spock is neither a masochist nor a sadist, but he will engage in sadism when McCoy needs it, just as he will engage in sex. He will place McCoy's collar around McCoy's neck and shove him around and leave bites and bruises and fuck him into the mattress and he will take McCoy apart with exquisitely cruel, cutting words, words which spear straight into the deepest and darkest of McCoy's shames and drag them out into the light until he's a sobbing, shaking wreck of blissed-out anguish, and then Spock will clean him off and kiss the tears from his cheeks and put him back together again, absolving him of all his faults and restoring him to wholeness once again.

“I am ready, Doctor,” says Spock.

Sometimes McCoy wants to be hurt. To feel pain. To atone. At other times, he needs to feel like he can keep someone else safe. Needs to feel like he can make someone else know that they're cherished and loved. And Spock, well. Spock always values being of use. He always wants to belong.

“All right, sweetheart,” McCoy purrs. He can't help but smile even as he presses a kiss to Spock's shapely, somber, graceful mouth, smiling even as he sweeps his tongue against Spock's lower lip and sucks it in between his teeth to nibble at it. He scratches his fingernails lightly against the nape of Spock's neck as he draws away, just enough and in just the right spot to trip Spock into the faintest of shivers.

This, McCoy thinks, is a desire which transcends that of the body. Spock isn't sexually attracted to him and he never will be, and that's fine. Hell, that's _more_ than fine, because it's a part of who Spock _is,_ and as much as McCoy likes to needle him, he wouldn't change a single thing about Spock for all the universe.

More selfishly, it also means that Spock wants McCoy _for McCoy,_ too. He doesn't want McCoy for his looks or lack thereof. He's not in this for whatever bedroom prowess McCoy may or may not have, or because his standards are low enough to find curmudgeonly and overly sentimental middle-aged men like McCoy irresistible.

Spock's here because they love each other. He's here with McCoy because it's where he most wants to be.

He's here, with McCoy, giving this precious gift to McCoy, because he believes McCoy is worthy of it. Worthy of _him._ Plain and simple.

And, God, is that ever an ego boost and a turn-on.

“All right,” McCoy repeats, and he kisses Spock again. Kisses him until the stone of Spock's mouth melts into malleability, until Spock's lips are moving against his and his tongue is twisting in wet duet against McCoy's.

Spock enjoys kissing, and he seeks out touch like a big ole cat whenever they're alone. He leans into McCoy's hands as McCoy steers them to the desk in the corner of their personal quarters, and McCoy makes sure that they do not part even as Spock sinks to his knees and shuffles, backwards, beneath it, his own hands held behind himself, crossed at the small of his back. McCoy settles into the chair and scoots it up until Spock is bracketed by his legs.

They're both still fully dressed. McCoy can hear Spock breathing, slow and steady as a metronome, and going even slower and steadier as he sinks into subspace. His eyes look straight ahead, calm and unfocused and very dark in the shadowed shelter below the desk, below the upswept points of his eyebrows, and his hair is as smooth and glossy as watered silk beneath McCoy's hand.

McCoy begins to comb his fingers through Spock's hair, mussing it and then neatening it, massaging Spock's scalp with his fingertips. He plays with Spock's hair until that stiff discipline gradually bleeds from Spock's posture and he relaxes, drooping until his head rests heavy upon McCoy's thigh. He nuzzles his cheek against the rough black fabric of McCoy's uniform pants. His breath furls teasingly against McCoy's groin.

“You're so good, darling,” says McCoy. He unseals his fly, folds the placket aside, and hitches down his underwear to pull himself out. He's already stirred to just shy of erect in anticipation, his member pulsing plump and velvety-hot within the dry touch of his own hand. He has to resist the urge to buck his hips and stroke himself to full hardness. Squeezes himself once, as a reminder to hold himself back. “You're being so good for me,” he murmurs. “You're so beautiful. Open up for me, now, sweetness. Let me in.”

Spock sighs softly through his nose, his solemn eyes fluttering shut, and he opens his mouth. McCoy spreads his hand against the back of Spock's head, fingers threading through his fine, straight hair, and he guides Spock forward until his lips part around the tip of McCoy's cock and yield to allow him just inside.

McCoy groans at the first touch of Spock's tongue, hot and wet and clever as it zeroes in against his slit and _flicks._ He rests himself there for a moment, Spock's lips cushioning McCoy's cock from his teeth, Spock's slick tongue rolling fully forward to swirl firmly across the spongy crown, curling beneath the foreskin and digging up hard beneath the head. The gaunt planes of Spock's cheeks hollow as he begins to suck, the luscious influx of pressure sending a wave of lust crashing up against the dam of McCoy's self-control.

“Hey now,” McCoy warns chidingly, clenching the hand he has in Spock's hair and tugging just enough to make it clear that he'll pull Spock right off of him if Spock doesn't desist.

Spock subsides into obedient stillness, tongue and lips slackening with the smacking sound of broken suction, and McCoy waits a few more seconds before relenting and pressing forward, sinking into lax, wet heat. He keeps pushing in, slowly feeding his cock deeper into Spock's welcoming mouth until Spock's nose is buried in the thatch of clean brown pubic hair which puffs out from the V of McCoy's open fly. The head of McCoy's cock bumps against the pillowed satin of Spock's soft palate, and Spock swallows, the molten pocket of his mouth constricting spasmodically around the fattening curl of McCoy's length.

McCoy inhales sharply, his lungs and ribs expanding, his heart pounding in his ears in time with the greedy, hopeful throb of his semi-hard cock. He feels lightheaded. Dizzy with how delectably _good_ it is, balancing on the precipice of the imminent biological imperative which demands he rut his way into an orgasm, and the denial of that very imperative.

“So sweet for me, Spock,” he says. “So good. You feel so good, so cozy. Wanna keep my cock in you forever. Make you my home.”

Spock's eyes shift beneath his lavender-tinted lids, the fragile black fans of his eyelashes flickering for a moment. His brow is smooth, serene even with the faux-malevolent curves of his eyebrows, and he looks younger with his inky bangs tousled and brushed back from his forehead as they are, his long face simultaneously longer and yet, somehow, more babyish. It's horrendously endearing.

“Now you just stay there, darlin'. You're doing so well. So perfect. You're perfect.” McCoy shifts the chair forward again to take the strain off of Spock's neck, the weight of Spock's face falling against his crotch, Spock's chin pushing against McCoy's balls through the fabric of his pants. McCoy grinds himself against Spock's face, briefly reveling in the heavy roll of his balls against Spock's chin and in the clutch of Spock's mouth as Spock swallows again in response.

Then he stills his hips, cracks his neck, and settles himself in his seat. Getting himself loose and comfortable as he turns on his computer monitor and pulls up that romance novel he's been reading.

When he's the one warming Spock's cock, Spock likes to go and do actual work. File his reports and such. He treats McCoy as a convenient but forgettable receptacle, or a very peculiar piece of furniture. As if warming his cock in McCoy is an act of condescension, as if it's the only thing McCoy's useful for, and that's what McCoy prefers.

But it's not what Spock prefers, and McCoy doesn't have Spock's compartmentalization skills. It feels too weird for him to try and slog through medical documentation and patient checkup schedules while doing this. He wouldn't muck about with his work while sipping at his stash of fine bourbon or while savoring a box of his favorite chocolates, and so he doesn't do so while he has Spock's mouth around his cock, either.

It's an indulgence. A way of unwinding, for the both of them. Might as well treasure it all the way.

McCoy starts to read. It's a good book. Both of the main characters are cute, with good chemistry, and the writing has plenty of charm and wit. He likes that the heroine is tall, raven-haired, and notably takes no shit from the other one, and he's soon wholly engrossed by the story, his cock nestled in the snug, sopping sleeve of Spock's mouth, the heightened but as-yet idle baseline of his banked arousal humming in honeyed pulses through his groin, spiking every now and then when Spock's slack mouth tightens with a momentary swallow. Excess drool still seeps out, sliding around the base of McCoy's cock and dripping down his balls, plastering McCoy's pubes flat and soaking his pants and Spock's chin alike. Spock's breath forms a tickling patch of humidity in the hair above, the cool sterility of the ship's recirculated air rushing in with warring coolness against McCoy's skin every time that Spock's exhalations recede.

“That's it, that's just right. I love your mouth around me. So slick, so soft. I love you, Spock. I love doing this with you. I love that you do this for me. You're so good for me.”

McCoy keeps up an intermittent stream of praise, punctuating Spock's meditative motionlessness with the occasional encouragement, the occasional absent roll of his hips against Spock's face. Sometimes he comes across a particularly well-written sentence or paragraph in the romance novel and he'll read it aloud to them both. Give Spock his opinion on it because Spock can't offer up his own what with his throat being otherwise occupied. He keeps his hand on Spock's head. Keeps slipping his fingers through Spock's sleek hair, running his nails against the nape of Spock's neck with gentle, rasping scritches until Spock rumbles in downright feline approval, the vibrations of his muffled voice sending a trembling jolt of pleasure straight to McCoy's balls.

“It's like your mouth was _made_ to fit me, Spock. Made for me, for this. Hand in glove.” He touches the side of Spock's face. Circles his thumb over the high point of his cheekbone. “You comfy down there? Doin' all right?”

McCoy's knees and jaw would be cramping like hell by now. But Spock just nudges against McCoy's thumb and opens his mind, sending a flood of somnolent contentment across the link. McCoy's head droops and lolls against the back of his chair from how strong it is, and he chuckles as it tapers off again. “Okay, darlin'. How 'bout you get me hard, huh?” Phrasing what they both know to be an order like a question.

Spock sighs as he draws back, his lips sealing hard around the shaft and sucking all the way back out to the head, teasing the slit and curling around the edge of the retracting foreskin. Then he softens the suction and sinks back down until he's taken McCoy to the hilt again, only to tighten his lips and repeat the maneuver, setting up a rhythm. His tongue drags against the increasingly prominent vein running along the base of McCoy's cock as the flesh engorges with the stimulation.

It takes very little, really, until McCoy has filled out into eager stiffness. He's not a particularly girthy man, but he is long enough that when Spock next sucks him down the head of his cock pops into Spock's throat. McCoy presses his hand against the back of Spock's head to keep him there.

Spock doesn't choke. He can exert such precise control over his body that he can harden and soften at will— hell, he can put himself into a trance so severe that it can pass as a _coma,_ everything else is a veritable piece of cake next to that— so of course Spock can also just shut his gag reflex off whenever it suits him. He does try to swallow, though, presumably in a bid to keep his saliva from overflowing too much more. The muscular ring of his pharynx clenches, milking McCoy's cockhead with every aborted and increasingly desperate swallow until McCoy pulls out far enough for Spock to breathe.

“Still okay?” McCoy asks. He braces his fingertips against Spock's temple and is awash in assent, and in a sort of concentrated tranquility.

“Okay. I'm so proud of you, Spock,” he says. He moves to trace the outside edge of Spock's pointed ear, and reaches down beneath the desk with the other for a moment to touch the smooth, warm metal of Spock's collar, then upward, cradling his jaw and swiping his thumb through the saliva leaking from the corner of Spock's stretched lips, before lifting his arm back up to the desk. “I'm so grateful. I'm so glad I have you with me.”

McCoy begins to read again, though it's much more difficult now. His higher brain functions are floating just a bit above himself, disconnected, scanning the lines of text on the screen and retaining nothing. The larger portion of his focus is centered solely around the delicious, throbbing ache of his erection, enveloped within the suspended pleasure and the wet, wringing heat of Spock's heavenly mouth.

“You're so beautiful,” McCoy pants every now and then, the praise coming absently but earnestly, and with delirious fervor. He can't say these things, usually, but their truth belongs here. Spock needs to hear them, here, and McCoy needs to say them. “I'm so lucky to have you. You make me so happy, Spock, you know that? I'm so happy with you. My darling. My sweetheart.”

He waits until he starts to soften again. Thrusts himself back into the tightness of that scalding throat, working himself back into full, insistent hardness, and then stills himself once more. He reads another two chapters and does this three more times, until his spine is jerking and his toes are curling in his boots at the lightest shift of his cock, every nerve ending swollen to the point of agony, flayed open and over-sensitized, his balls drawn up tight and tender beneath him, jumping with every hitching, ragged breath which he scrapes in and out of his chest.

He leans back far enough to finally look at Spock again. Looks at Spock's chafed-emerald lips, the mess of spit and pre-come smeared on his cheeks making them gleam around the intrusion of McCoy's slick, ruddy shaft, the difference in undertone between their respective Human and Vulcan complexions brought into stark relief. There's the tousled shattered-jet mess of Spock's hair, and the way that Spock's expression is as opaque as ever despite it all, as unruffled as a classical marble statue, his eyes still peacefully closed.

They crack open when McCoy switches off the computer power with a loud click of the button and the electric pop of the screen going black, his lashes clinging slightly to each other, dewy with moisture. He blinks a couple times to clear them without once raising his deferential gaze from their point below McCoy's navel. McCoy's own reflection, when he takes a glance at himself for comparison, looks back at him from the deactivated screen as if drugged, his eyelids at half-mast with lassitude yet somehow feverishly bright and his cheeks darkened by a hectic flush.

McCoy frames Spock's face with his trembling hands. Holds him a little too tight. He doesn't need to say anything this time for Spock to establish telepathic contact, and Spock's trust hits him like a freight train, like an epiphany, an explosion which reaches way down into the marrow of his bones and obliterates every cell. There is the secondhand echo of McCoy's own arousal, mirrored back at him, filtered through Spock's lens of fondness, his smug satisfaction at having provided this for his mate. And then there is the love, flowing incandescent through the link from both sides.

It pours out of McCoy as quick and potent as a tapped artery and is requited with just as much drowning enormity, iron and copper mingling, merging, and McCoy comes like that, rocking into the sweet, wet warmth of Spock's throat and overwhelmed by the most familiar of revelations.

He's not sure how long it takes for him to shudder through it but when he regains his senses he's pulled himself out of Spock's mouth, the air clammily cold on his dripping skin, his sweat drying everywhere. He's nicely sore and twitching with the last of the aftershocks as he unfastens Spock's collar and takes it from around his neck to set it on the desk.

Spock blinks again and meets McCoy's eyes as soon as the collar is off, signaling the end of the scene. He clears his throat and lifts one eyebrow. “I trust you enjoyed yourself,” he says, hoarsely, then begins to dab fastidiously at his chin and cheeks with the braided cuff of his blue uniform sleeve.

“Get up here,” McCoy says, laughing. He's clumsy and heavy-limbed with afterglow as he pushes back the chair and urges Spock's rangy frame out from under the desk and into straddling his lap. His cock's still out, wilted and red and as exhausted as he is, and he feels far too amazing to give one single damn as he hugs Spock to himself and buries his face against Spock's chest. “That was extraordinary. It wasn't too much, was it?”

“It was not,” Spock rasps, sneaking his hands down to tuck McCoy into his pants with deft devotion. He pats McCoy when he's finished doing up McCoy's fly, as if in perfunctory reward for a job well done, and McCoy laughs again, loopy.

“I meant it. I love you so much, Spock, and not just 'cause of this. I'd love you if you decided you never wanted to do this ever again starting from right this second onward, and I'd consider myself one damn lucky bastard, too. Because being with you, Spock? Either way, it's a blessing and a privilege.”

“Peculiar,” says Spock. “I personally consider our relationship to be a mutually beneficial one. Our equality in this matter cannot be overstated.”

“You flatterer, you,” says McCoy. “Come on. Let's go clean ourselves up so I can bundle you into bed and ply you with cuddles and tea and _then_ we can argue the night away.”

Spock kisses him. Once on the lips, and then, unexpectedly, on the tip of his nose. With reverent eyes and utmost gravity, Spock says, “Very well.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rebloggable post [here!](http://willowbilly.tumblr.com/post/176825792886/another-moment-more-willowbilly-star-trek-the)


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